Normal service will be resumed shortly

I have just spent some time posting the following message on random blogs around the world, chosen by the next blog wotsit at the top of the page.
If you are one of the people who have been visited by me and have come here to find out the story behind the comment, there is no story. Just wanted to wish a few random fellow inhabitants of the planet good wishes.
For my regular readers (AMToNW), feel free to accept the wishes. I will be back to being a miserable old twat very shortly. And now I am going to bed, in order to avoid the temptation of watching something dire on the television and 'seeing in the New Year'.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As an act of penance for being a miserable old bugger over the Christmas period, I thought I would visit some random blogs and wish them a happy new year

Happy new year.
Wes hál in þám neowan Geáre
Stastny Novy Rok
Godt Nytår
Gelukkig Nieuwjaar
Bonne Année
Ein glückliches neues Jahr
Felice Anno Nuovo
Godt Nytt År
Szczesliwego Nowego Roku
Feliz Ano Novo
S Novym Godom
Gëzuar Vitin e Ri
Feliz Año Nuevo
Srechno Novo Leto
Gott Nytt År
Blian nua faoi mhaise duit
Blwyddyn Newydd Dda
Aliheli'sdi Itse(i) Udetiyvsadisv(i)
Voorspoedige nuwe jaar
Barka da sabuwar shekara
Karibu Mwaka Mupia
Teth loac tee kon rey ru-n a neme
kull 'aam wa-antum bikhayr
Shuvo Nobo Borsho
San nin faailok
Saal Mubarak
Nava Varsh Ki Haardik Shubh Kaamnaayen
Shinnen omedeto goziamasu
Selamat Tahun baru
Kong He Xin Xi
Namae Saaldiyan Mubarakan
Naththar Valthukkal Pudhu Varusha Vaazhthukkal
Naya Saal Mubarak Ho

New year honours

My friends at the BBC have produced a somewhat erudite list of the worst Britons of each of the last 10 centuries. All of my readers will be familiar with most of the names – Hugh Despenser (inventor of the condom dispenser), Richard Rich (portrayed on screen by Macauley Culkin) and Eadric Streona, which I had previously supposed to be the county dish of Herefordshire. I am not making these names up, check the BBC site.

I thought I would join in by nominating the worst Briton of my distinguished life.

It will come as little surprise to see the name John Emburey here. Some may say that he deserves this honour for being the only English cricketer to be as callous and mercenary as to go on two rebel tours of South Africa during the apartheid years, but that is nothing compared to the hour upon hour of excruciatingly pathetic bowling. He must bear the responsibility for the death of spin bowling in England. (Those wishing to challenge the assertion that spin bowling is not dead in England need only to consider the name ‘Ashley Giles’ to see the veracity of my statement). Year after year he was selected to play at test level, where over the last few years of his international career his bowling average exceeded 60 (are you getting this, Adam) and he was singly responsible for boring to death hundreds of people including the entire population of Little Shagging in Suffolk. His only redeeming feature was his imaginative use of language as illustrated by the apocryphal story of his replying to a colleague about an injury to his back with the response “the facking facker’s facking facked” (yes he had an appalling southern accent as well).

I invite readers (AMToNW) to supply their nomination for the worst Briton of their own lifetime. If you wish to simply lambaste an obvious target, then dear Betty has provided an excellent platform for that in her seasonal article about King Herod. But entries here should be accompanied by a reasoned argument, with points awarded for obscurity while at the same time the nominee should be in the public arena, so your gym teacher or aunt will not do, unless he or she is Cilla Black for example. Groups of people are allowed up to a reasonable level, but such general targets as “all the twats who voted for Thatcher” are beyond the parameters of this competition. Adam, to help you, as you do not know any Brits, or indeed anyone who does not live in East Dumbfuck, Kentucky - you can nominate me. Tell the world why you would like to see me at the mercy of Mr Schwarzenegger, but do it with respect.

Recommended reading

I have stolen this picture from my friends at Whitehouse .org
Read Laura's Christmas letter

Is it cosmetic surgery that makes her always look surprised?
In this one she seems to be saying "Remind me again how this arsewit got elected".
------------------------------------------------------------------
If you didn't get this year's Kaliyuga Kards Christmas production, then send me your address and one will be in the post, or I could send the PDF version, but it somehow isn't the same is it?
Among my favourite comments so far is the one from the lovely Geoff and Betty, but I will not publish it here in case in spoils the surprise in the card.

The lovely Julia said:
"you never cease to satisy my under-utilized iconoclastic proclivities"
There's clever.

On the other hand, most people thought the card was crap and in the poorest of taste.

Fa la la la la, la la la BOLLOCKS

I have been reluctant to post these few days because I have recognised that there has been a tendency to use language in my posts that may frighten away the more delicate listener. Or those younger readers whose parents may not approve of some of the words used.

I would like to blame the preposterous antics and conversation of those members of the human race with whom I come into contact in the period leading up to the holidays, but must confess that I need to look to myself to be more tolerant. Probably need to eat more roughage, as nice aunty Caroline says.

Last night it was carol singers. No, not really carol singers, but two young ladies who thought that the ancient art of carol singing consisted of singing two lines of “jingle fucking bells” (you see, I can’t help it), off key and then asking for money. “If I give you some money will you stop singing and go away?” I ebenezered, quite politely.

Not that I want anybody thinking that I am some stuck in the mud traditionalist who believes that jingle bells is not a carol, and would prefer tuneful tales of the baby Jesus being sung loudly at my door. No. Sod off. I don’t want any of it. Thank you very much. The local church choir have stopped coming round as well. I don’t mind them, they collect for charity. Hopefully Doctor Barnados maximum security home for off key teenage carol singers. They stopped coming after the incident when they asked if I had any requests and I said “anything by the Sex Pistols”. I wish they would get into the Christmas spirit. I am obviously making a fucking effort.

Yosser Cameron

This young man is evidently in need of a useful occupation. I need someone to clean out my gutters, but he looks too fucking stupid to do something that complicated.

Crap joke (as if that distinguishes it from the other dross on this site)

My friends at the BBC inform me that "King Kong takes $18million on first day".
I am not surprised.
Who's going to stop a fucking great gorilla?

William Wanky Wallace

Many of my readers (AMToNW) will be familiar with the concept of the whinge. A reader from north of the border (A Mr McTrellis of North Wigtown), has complained loudly, repeatedly and some may say boringly about changes I made to this website.
It may be that the dark Scottish nights make it hard for him to read. Who cares?
But, in the spirit of tolerance and having nothing better to do. I publish here his suggestion for a poll. These are his words not mine.

"Simon has proposed we hold a multiple-question poll on the new design of my wonderful and informative blog. Please validate one of the following statements that you believe to be true - but only one box:

1. This is the most beautiful blog in the blogosphere.

2. Pretty cool, you may be a geek but you have style!

3. Above average - for NE Hampshire.

4. Is that the winter low light version?

5. Take it away! It sets off my SAD (seasonal affective disorder).

6. Man, it's so ugly it should win a prize!

A cautionary tale

I reject yet another invitation to spend Christmas with the Windsor-Mountbattens.

I gave in one year - I wasn’t feeling well, and cannot describe you truly awful it was. I refused to wear formal attire, and they didn’t take kindly to this. Being vegetarian was frowned on also, and for Christmas lunch I had a plateful of lukewarm mashed turnips. I think that was Philip’s idea. At lunch, the womenfolk all wore paper hats, while the chaps each had one of Liz’s spare tiaras. Apart from the turnip joke, Philip’s idea of merriment was to pretend that Timmy Laurence (who was dressed in naval uniform, God knows why, not many ships in bloody Norfolk (or anything else of interest either)), was one of the footmen. This was before the days of Camilla, and so there were no fart cushions or naked men jumping out of the pudding. The queen mother was obsessed with the idea that she could do Marlene Dietrich impressions, and spoke throughout in an accent that was a mixture of Welsh and South African: no one had any idea what she was saying, although they all seemed to view this behaviour as perfectly normal. At one point, one of the servants brought her a kipper wrapped in the Daily Express, she had a minor tantrum, but no one was able to understand what she had really asked for. The only good thing about this little episode was that it wiped the smugness from Phil’s face, and obviously made him forget about any more jokes at my expense. He became quite taciturn.

The worst moments were when Fergie turned up and banged on the window trying to get in. Everyone affected to ignore her, although Andy didn’t fare too well – he spent sixteen minutes trying to cut his roast potato with the blunt side of the knife. It could be argued that this was just normal for him, but he was not his normal cheerful moronic self. Eventually the old ratbag was carried away screaming across the lawn by two secret service chaps.

After lunch, Charles wandered off to make a telephone call, Phil and Anne had a blazing row about whether the sum of the IQs of her husbands reached 60 or some such, the York children played a game based, as far as I could tell, on Elizabeth the first and Mary queen of Scots. I was left with bloody Teddy, who seemed to think I was some sort of theatrical sort, despite my telling him several times that I had never been in ‘Brideshead’, and started telling me some bollocknumbingly dull story about Peggy Ashcroft.

At three o’clock we were forced to gather round the television. We knew what to expect, and were not surprised when as soon as the programme started Liz put on her Yorkshire accent (I have to say it sounded very good to me), “Ee! Look at yon bag! Ah’ve seen better clothes on ‘donkey down ‘pit!”

After that little episode, new year with John and Norma Major was positively refreshing.

Hard boiled sweetmeat flavoured with peppermint

I am happy to report, that in this part of NE Hampshire at least, Christmas is over.

Yesterday I posted my cards. This is the only concession I make towards recognising that the festival exists at all. My Christmas cards consist of several bought from a suitable right-on charity for my elderly relatives, and several dozen truly cheap and tasteless home produced monstrosities that go to dear and loved friends all over the world – Hawaii, Australia, Texas and even Belgium.

I gauge the success of the card by the number of litres of vomit produced by the lovely Mrs S. when she first sees them.

I can now safely bolt the door, and semi-hibernate for a couple of weeks. I will try very hard to avoid conversations about the season, resist the urge to smack anyone who says “… and all the trimmings”, resist even harder the urge to watch anything on TV that contains the sub-title “Christmas special”, and begin the long and anxious period of praying for inspiration for the design of next year’s festive card.

Countdown to the royal divorce - part 8

I have declined the opportunity to be involved in the campaign to elect Zara Phillips as “Sports Personality of the Year”. This despite her all round prowess, which would be worthy of the most accomplished pentathlete.

In addition to her well known equestrian activities, and her slightly less reported involvement in Thai Boxing, discus throwing and trampolining, she has shown the sort of all round talent that characterises the entire family.

It is her plan to represent Scotland as a lock forward at Rugby that causes both her mother and me the most concern. “I hardly think it is appropriate for her to be seen packed tightly in a formation of muscular men, grabbing the testicles of the chap in front”, Anne complains, somewhat snootily. “Rubbish, lovey”, I retort, “your grandmother was famous for it.” It is true – Clarence House was the only royal household to have a permanent hernia surgeon on the staff, and if she was having one of her ‘off days’ you could wait for fucking ages at the front door, while either a fit footman dodged her, or one of those with whom she had tampered, limped painfully along the corridors.

My view is more for the safety of the other players. I was at the recent game with the royal party, when in the line out, Zara jumped for the ball, and the momentum caused her more than generous breasts to swing wildly and concuss a Saracen’s player, (giving new meaning to “loose-head prop”). Anne herself is known as “Iron Tits” in the family circle. More than one person has been caught out when standing behind her, and not anticipating her suddenly swinging round. It is in this lack of fairness that my objections to her activities in this area are based.

Camilla, of course, had to have her say. “I was captain of tiddlywinks of my house at school,” she enthused, “perhaps I could be on the programme as well.” “Fuck off, Cams,” I told her, “John Motson will almost certainly be there, and remember how pissed off you were, the last time you got mistaken for him? Even though he was much better dressed than you. And we had best draw a veil over the incident when you took part in the charity relay race, and tried to take the baton from Linford Christie.”

Even dear Anne did not go this far

I was a little alarmed to read “Greek billionairess Athina Roussel Onassis - worth up to $1bn - marries a Brazilian horseman on Saturday”, at BBC news. I had always thought that the Centaur was a mythical beast, but obviously the Greek aristocracy know where to find them.

Dear readers (AMToNW), please do not think this is an invitation to inundate this journal with inappropriate comments. I am trying to maintain standards.